


Last Light

by sp_oops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7258999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 5x04: The End. </p>
<p>You thought you were over this. Them. Put that whole mess behind you and focused on your job. But when Dean shows up from 2009, it makes you realize how much you’re still hurting, and damn it, how much you still want him and Cas both. But with wheels up at midnight on the mission to shoot the devil, you’re out of time. Or are you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Light

 

You don’t _mean_ to go to Cas’ cabin, but here you are, dried mud on your boots, a night without sleep tugging heavy at your joints and scratching at your eyelids. Your heart’s thumping hard, like when you’d show up here and didn’t have to knock.

This isn’t where you belong. But considering what you just heard. . . Christ. You don’t have anywhere else to go.

You rap a fist against the jamb beside the beaded curtain, knowing what this looks like if anybody sees you on this porch. Determined to not give a fuck. “You know it’s open,” Cas calls from inside, and you bat your way through those ridiculous beads.

Inside, it smells a bit like pot but more like. . . well, exactly how you remember. Nights spent in Cas’ bed, tangling your fingers in his hair. Dean pulling you close, murmuring in his sleep against the back of your neck.

Now, Cas is flat on his back on that bed, boots braced on the floor, hands behind his head.

For a second your heart twists at this rare glimpse of vulnerability. Then it occurs to you that he should be ass over elbows in bodies right now, and the feeling fades. You say, “Thought you were supposed to have company this afternoon.”

He doesn’t move. “Thought you were done coming over when I do.”

Welp, off to a great start. At least he’s sober. “Just wanted to confirm the rumor. Then I’ll be outta here.”

“Why don’t you find him yourself?”

“Because I. . .” _wanted to hear it from you first. Wanted the excuse to see you_. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

Cas eases himself upright and props his elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he tells his hand. “It’s, ah. It’s definitely true. He showed up here. Standing right where you are. Said he’s from 2009.”

2009, huh. Quick math says the three of you hadn’t hooked up yet, but god, everything you revealed afterward, all the confessions—Dean still wanted, then, and had for so long he barely remembered life without it. So did you. So did Cas.

“Zachariah sent him.” Cas pushes off his knees to stand, and rolls his shoulders as he heads toward the kitchenette. “Trying to. . . I don’t know. Show him what happens if he doesn’t say yes to Michael?”

“He _did_ say yes,” you protest, as though Cas needs reminding. You were both there, waiting by the Impala the night Dean shouted himself hoarse at the side of the road. Hoping it would and wouldn’t work. Shaking to bits with Cas, not enough mojo left to make his own nerves settle. “Like a bajillion times.”

“Yeah. Well. Not soon enough, apparently.”

Man. All this time, and you hadn’t thought it was possible to hate Zachariah more.

Cas flicks on the portable gas burner beneath the heavy teakettle, then lights it with a match. He turns back to you, leaning against the countertop. Studying you with those big blue eyes. Voice softer, he says, “You heard about Yeager?”

All the energy you mustered to get here drains away; your breath catches on your inhale. Christ on a crutch, you’re _tired_. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look away. “What happened back there?”

You spread your hands and drop them. “There was a pack hanging near that house. Told Dean’s group about it soon as they got there. He said it was worth the risk.” You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, fighting the tightness in your throat. “We got swamped. Demons and Croats both.” You’re still surprised _you_ survived, honestly. “Thought everybody made it out okay.”

“But Dean got what he wanted.”

You think of Dean tucking the Colt into his bag, a smooth, angular hunk of metal. You could smell the corroded iron from where you stood. Blood-thick and earthen. “Yep.”

Silence opens between you until the kettle starts whimpering. Cas snaps off the burner and grabs a battered-ass tin of tea, holding it up to you in question.

God, you want to stay for this. You want him to keep asking about that raid in his soft, concerned tone. No putting on a show, no exaggerated mid-trip cheer. “Nah. I’m good.”

“It’s just mint,” he promises. “From the. . .” he gestures toward the back of the cabin; you’d forgotten about the little herb garden he used to keep. It brings up more ache that he still does.

“No, I oughta. . .” Your throat tightens; you jerk a thumb over your shoulder.

Cas’ hands frame either end of the tin, tilting it end to end. He says, “You should go see him. The oh-nine variety. You. . . you really should.”

“Like old times, huh.”

He looks away. “Close enough.”

The beaded curtain clicks frantically in your wake.

* * *

When you finally catch sight of Dean, he’s waist-deep in Yeager’s grave.

Hunh. Somebody had to bury the bones. Guess other-Dean thought this one needed something to do.

His jacket and button-down hang on the bole of a tree nearby, his gun and knife in reach. His back’s to you, patches of sweat on his gray tee. Your breath catches at the sight of the ring on his right hand and his beaded bracelet; you can’t even remember when he stopped wearing them. There’s a smudge on his cheek and a rib-height tear in his shirt when he turns to toss out a shovelful of dirt. More dirt clings in patches to his shining arms.

You plant your shovel when you get close. The _ting_ makes him startle and turn, and then he nearly drops his shovel. Eyes wide, he breathes, “Hey.”

One word, and you’re already smiling like a dork. “Hey. You make out with yourself yet, or what?”

A wry grin lights his entire young face. “Y’know,” he says, “I don’t think he was in the mood.”

“Shame,” you say, soaking in the details as he climbs out and comes closer. He’s different, and yet. . . “That’s like, the _first_ thing you do when you time travel. Everyone knows this.”

He breathes out a laugh, glancing down and then back up through his lashes. “Hi.”

“Hey, Dean.”

“Other-me said you were out.”

“Yeah, I just got back. How’d you get stuck with Yeager?”

“Volunteered.” He glances behind him. It’s then that you notice the box of blackened bones beside the grave, and the cheer goes sour in your throat. He says, “Think they’re happy to keep me busy.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Dean’s back to staring at you; it’s making your face feel hot. He says, “You look—”

“Older?”

“—the same. I mean—more like you. More. . .” His hands come up, a smile tugging his lips again. “Y’know what, I’m gonna stop talking.”

Guh, you _know_ how much he wants you at this point in his timeline. How desperately he tried to play it cool. How he still is, right in front of you.

He tries, “Other-me said you were on recon?”

“Yeah.” You gesture out at the woods. “When we do a raid, I go on ahead of Dean’s group. Scope out the place, lay low. Report in once they show up. Keep watch if they need it. Make sure they aren’t being followed back. So. First one in. Last one out the club.”

“More like a canary down a coal mine.”

“Yikes. I like mine better.”

“So this isn’t the first time you’ve missed a funeral.”

The smile slips off your face like he socked you in the gut.

Whaddaya know. This Dean still shows when he’s emphasizing.

Your throat goes tight against memories of every arrival back to camp with nothing left of a fallen friend but a column of thin gray smoke above the treetops, the pyre already burned through and doused. Just bones left to bury. It rasps when you manage, “Ah, nope. Sure isn’t.”

Dean’s watching you with slanted brows, so concerned you can barely look at him. He says, “You wanna help me out here?”

“Yeah.” You breathe deep, and pull your shovel out of the earth. “Yeah, let’s get to work.”

* * *

When the dirt’s all settled back in place, you feel wobbly all over. Grave digging’s one hell of a workout, even if you didn’t need to dig deep as usual. And you’re running on zero sleep and a crapton of nerves.

Dean looks at you, leaning on his shovel like you, still panting a little. He says, “You wanna say a few words?”

Instinct has you opening your mouth to refuse, but you hesitate. This isn’t—you don’t have to hold yourself back around this Dean. Not in this regard, anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” You straighten up, and take another step toward the grave. The words come haltingly at first: “Hey, Yeager. Buddy. I—I’m sorry I missed your funeral. Hopefully this whole burial thing makes up for it.” You drag in a deep breath. “I wish I coulda thanked you for being such a selfless guy, you know. There’s a lotta kids here who have you to thank for all the cool crap they have.”

“Like what?” says Dean, soft.

“On supply runs, he’d always look for stuffed animals. Picture books. Every damn time.” You look back at the grave and the handful of dandelions you laid on top of it. “You helped me fix up my Ranger when. . .” _When Dean had better things to do_. “. . . when nobody else would.” It’s been a few years since you found that little pickup truck by the side of the road, sleek and black, muzzled with roll bars over the front grille. Keys in the ignition. Tiny thing, but after Yeager’s help, it got the job done. “And I’m pretty sure most of us owe you our lives, after you taught us to build fishing poles that first winter. So.” Your throat’s gone tight. “Thanks for being a good friend. You didn’t deserve to go out like that. And I—however long we last out here, I won’t forget you. And I won’t let the others forget you, either.”

In the silence, Dean’s hand settles onto your shoulder, curling around your collarbone from behind. You try not to lean into it, stunned by how much you still want to. He murmurs, “Still have a way with words, huh.”

_That_ gets your eyes prickling faster than losing Yeager.

“Shut up,” you mutter, fighting a smile even so. “I give it four outta ten.”

His hand slips around your shoulders, tugging you against his side, tucked under his arm. “Also still too hard on yourself.”

You can’t help it. You thunk your temple against him and close your eyes.

* * *

The porch rail digs into your back outside the War Room while you listen to the Deans argue. You fold your arms, fighting to cool your anger as the setting sun turns the evening dark blue.

Not even a cold shower and catching up on sleep improved that meeting.

What a load of _shit_. No recon, and a plan that isn’t a plan, and— _wow_ , you’re gonna save some room to give Dean hell for doing that to Risa.

But hey, come to think of it: with older-Dean’s plan in place, at least it kinda makes sense now. Why Zachariah thinks _this_ will make younger-Dean change his mind.

Not just to see how the world went to shit, but to watch his friends bite it, too.

Yeah, you were totally wrong. You _can_ hate Zachariah even more.

But Dean. . . damn him for doing this. All these years and he’s still just as blind with grief as he was after his last fight with Sam.

The screen door flies open, creaking as the younger Dean steps out, looking so. . . adrift. His brows are knit but his eyes are just swimming in desperation. When he notices you, the expression fades, but only marginally. Slowly, he comes to lean beside you on the railing.

You say, “Right?”

He breathes out short through his nose and looks down. Swallows thick. “No freakin’ kidding.”

You resist the urge to squeeze his shoulder before catching the screen door and heading inside.

Older-Dean’s leaning on the table, wearing the exact same look his younger counterpart just was. The Colt sits between his hands. It looks as sleek and deadly as ever, but the scent of corroded metal still hits your nose like it’ll flake into rusty ash as soon as someone touches it. And after spending the afternoon where you did, those earthen undertones just smell like grave dirt. “Dean?”

He straightens up. “You were quiet back there,” he says, and drops the Colt back in his rucksack with a _bang_ that rattles the table.

You shrug. “Everybody else covered most of what I was thinking.”

“They didn’t, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yep.” You brace your hands on the back of a chair, meeting his gaze. “You wanna tell me why you’re not sending my team ahead?”

“Sure. It’s too dangerous.”

“Never stopped you from sending me out before.”

He mirrors you, his big hands sinking onto the chair across from you. “This is different. This is _Lucifer_. We already know it’s a hotzone. We already know we’re gonna get swamped.”

“But you don’t know how far out that hotzone goes. All you have is the word of a demon whose intel is a _week old_ at this point. Lucifer could be chilling beachside in Cabo right now, and we’d have no idea.”

He has the decency to look stricken, at least.

“Let me go on ahead.” You try to keep from pleading. “I didn’t have Joe and Aaron with me on that run last night; they can be ready to go in an hour. We can do this and buy you some time—”

“ _No._ If Lucifer’s mooks catch you, we’re not getting you back. _And_ they’ll know we’re coming.”

Oh, Christ. Seriously? “You think I’ll get _caught_? All this time, and you still don’t trust me to do my job—”

“That’s not it and you know it.” His voice raises with every word. “I won’t risk you guys in there before the rest of us show up. We have a plan, and we’re sticking to it. Wheels up for _everyone_ at midnight. That’s final, kid.”

Your breath catches, knuckles going tight on the back of the chair. The word hangs in the air like the echo of a gunshot.

It takes him a second to hear his mistake. When he does, all the anger drains off his face. He gulps. Looks away. “I, uh. That. Just slipped out.”

You grit your teeth. “S’all right.”

“No, it isn’t.” Slowly, he sits. Looking so much like Cas earlier, he rubs his face with both hands. He says, “I know it’s risky. I know, okay. But this is the best chance we’re gonna get.” His hands fall. “We said we’d do whatever it takes.”

Yeah, you did. All three of you did, the morning after Dean’s “yes”es didn’t work. Light streaming through the sheets in that east-facing room upstairs at Bobby’s. Fingers tangling together, carding through each other’s bedhead. Promising you’d see this through no matter what it took. No matter what you’d lose.

Dean looks at you now, and the soft, open set of his face—he’s thinking about it, too.

You drop your gaze, cheeks heating. “I remember. So.” Deep breath. Don’t let him hear it shake. “So outta here at midnight.”

“Yeah. Six-hour drive if the roads aren’t bad.”

“Kansas City by sunrise.”

His voice wavers only a little: “And shooting the devil by lunch.”

It’s been one hell of a long time since he let you see that far past the stoicism.

You ask, “How can I help?”

And he blinks at you, because it’s not just a question. It’s code. Asking Dean if he’s okay was always a one-way ticket to no-answers-ville, so you and Cas would always ask something he’d actually respond to instead. _How can I help_ was one of the classics.

The smile on his face eases everything about him. He knows that question for what it is. Sometimes he’d answer, and sometimes he’d say—“Cover my six?”

It gets you smiling, too, and responding automatically: “Hey, with that ass, you bet.”

He glances down again. Like this, even with the deepening crows’ feet, the stubble he favors more than the oh-nine version, he looks every bit like his counterpart. He says, “Thanks.”

Dean from five years ago is waiting where you left him, leaning against the porch rail, arms folded. He’s looking at, totally puzzled. Fond and curious.

You pause when you draw even with him, self-conscious in his scrutiny. “What.” 

He bounces his heel against the lower slats, holding your gaze for a second too long. When he looks away, he says, light like he could drop it, “What the hell’s going on with you three?”

Panic flares and then fizzles along your nerves. “That obvious, are we.”

He shrugs, smiling a little when he comes back. “I mean, I know what it looks like.”

You feel caught, or maybe more exposed—like he can read every minute of the past five years on your face. But wow, you really want to tell him. You decide, “I’m gonna need backup for this.”

“Backup, huh.”

“Yep.” You slip past him, and head for Cas’ cabin. “Follow me.”

* * *

Cas uncorks what is possibly the last bottle of absinthe in existence and pours a couple splashes in some chipped but clean bistro glasses. It makes you think of the early days, when he discovered he didn’t have to try to taste food, he just _could_. There were bars back then, and he always liked the drinks with neon gradations and paper umbrellas. The absinthe makes you think of that shit, of him spinning tiny umbrellas in his big hands.

And god, it makes your heart clench, that he saved some of it for now.

You reach for him with your mind, fiercer than you have in years: _Cas, you gotta know I never stopped loving you_.

Absinthe sloshes out of the glass he passes to Dean, but he doesn’t falter, just licks his fingers.

Old habits die hard.

“Sit,” Cas says, gesturing at the thick ornate rug.

You hesitate. You’ve walked in on his ridiculous _guided meditations_ getting underway before. Always with everyone sitting in a circle on that damn rug.

He notices your flinch. “Just to talk,” he says, weary. “It’s that or the bed.”

You sit on the rug.

Dean does, too, uncertain at your right, glass dangling from his fingertips. Catching the low light from the one lamp Cas has lit. “Look, guys. I didn’t wanna make a big deal outta this. I just—”

“Dean,” Cas says, “I wasn’t being pert with the other you when I said his plan is reckless. Zachariah may keep _you_ safe, but this mission seems like the kind of suicide run he hoped you might see. So this isn’t for you.” He turns to you, glass up. A little sad. “It’s for us.”

At least you’re not the only one thinking it. You nudge your absinthe to his, and drink. The sweet, fragrant warmth burns sourly in your belly.

Cas lowers his glass. “So. Dean. You want to know what happened with us.”

You stare at your booze. “Pretty sure he figured it out.”

Dean’s tapping a finger against his glass. “Maybe. Still wouldn’t bet on it.”

Cas glances at you. You hold out a hand: _after you_.

Cas takes one more drink. Wincing, he says, “We were together. And then we weren’t.”

Dean blinks. “When you say ‘we,’ you mean—”

“All three of us,” you clarify. “For a few years.”

“Three and a half,” says Cas.

“That’s.” Dean’s shoulders rise and fall, eyes searching nothing. He can’t look up at either of you. “That’s not possible.”

Cas leans back on a hand. “You really don’t see it? I mean,the versions of us you left behind—we were crappy at hiding it.”

“I got no idea if I’m just seeing what I wanna see,” Deans says, thick. “And I never thought you’d _both_ be into it. Pretty sure I don’t believe it now.”

You wet your lips. “I can prove it.”

He and Cas both look up at you.

_Keep it together._ “What’s going with you on in 2009? Where you at?”

Dean says, “I’m, uh. Kind of travelling on my own. Keep circling back to you’n Cas.”

So if there’s no Sam. . . you rack your brain. “How recently was Raphael?”

Dean’s brows lift. “Last week.”

Oh, good. Perfect, for this. “Okay. You remember that night before, when we tried to get Cas laid?”

Cas damn near chokes on his absinthe. You keep your eyes on Dean, who’s deer-in-the-headlights-ing you as he says, “Yeah.”

“What was her name,” Cas rasps, thumping his chest with one fist. “Charity?”

“Chastity,” says Dean, stricken.

Ho-lee shit, the memories come flooding back. Cas, wide-eyed and disheveled; you and Dean at the bar, sitting close while—as you later learned— _both_ of you pictured, in vivid detail, what must’ve been going down with Cas. Wishing you’d been just a bit bolder. “Dean,” you say, “later you told me you regretted that.” Even Cas looks at you now, surprised. “Said _you_ wanted to be Cas’ first. Said you were sitting there at that bar thinking you should’ve just rented a motel room for all three of us.” Your face is heating; damn it, you should be past this kind of shit, but this Dean. . . unlike his clone across camp, _he still wants you_. Past-you, anyway. “Meanwhile I kept hoping you’d pull the Impala over and drag us into the backseat.”

Dean’s staring at you. “We wouldn’a fit.”

You hide a smile in your drink. “Yeah, you said the same thing then. All this sounding familiar, or. . .?”

He blinks away. “Yeah, that’s—holy shit.”  
  
“You regretted that?” Cas’ voice is so soft as he looks at Dean.  

Dean rolls his empty glass in his palms. “I mean. Yeah. Shoulda been us, if that’s what you wanted. Not some random chick at a sex club.”

Cas is speechless.

You step in. “We got there, eventually.”

Dean breathes out, shaky, and you have no idea if it’s the weight of it all, or something that has to do with the ruddy brush of color in his cheeks. He says, “When’s ‘eventually?’”

You drain your absinthe. “Few months later. Sam was just—you guys had a big fight. The last one. After that, we all kind of. . .” Fell on each other. The tension was _so_ obvious at that point. When Dean hung up, the only reason he kissed you first is because you were closest, and you reached for Cas and he was just _there_ and—

And Cas is looking at you now, something so tender in his gaze. The corner of his mouth tugs up, and it occurs to you: _he misses Dean as much as I do_. Does that mean he misses you, too?

Dean says, “Were we any good?”

Cas looks away. There’s no bitterness in his smile when he says, “The best.”

That hurts. “We were pretty great, Dean.”

“So what happened?”

Cas brings the absinthe back and pours everyone another round, talking as he does. “Sam was the beginning and the end. His loss started us out, and eventually it drove you away. Finding Lucifer and killing him became everything to you. You didn’t have room for anything else.”

“And it wasn’t just that we lost Sam,” you add. “It’s that Sam is _still out there_ while Lucifer wears him around. Right now. That shit tore you apart. It still does. Grief without any closure.”

Dean mutters, “Okay, Dr. Phil,” but it’s rattled.

“Hey, man.” You raise your absinthe. “You try picking through a Barnes & Noble at the end of the world. See if they got anything besides self-help books.”

That gets him smiling. “So I—what. I broke it off?”

“That would’ve been easier,” Cas says.

You step in. “You got distant as hell.” It’s still not easy to talk about, even now. “And when we asked you about it, you walked away.”

“From the relationship,” Cas clarifies. “Not us. But I guess you did that, too.”

Dean shifts. “And you two. . .”

“Stuck it out for another six months,” Cas says. “Until my ‘recreational use’ turned into ‘junkie.’”

You’ve told yourself over and over again that you’re fine. You’re over them. Recently, you’ve actually come to believe it. Hearing it all laid out like this—wow, fine you are _not_. “Yeah. Pretty much..”

“Then that was it.” Cas kills his absinthe. “We moved on.”

Dean breathes a short laugh through his nose.

You and Cas both stare at him.

“Yeah,” you say, with the lightness of the truly bitter, “totally. It’s hilarious.”

“No, I—” Dean gestures between you, incredulous. “It’s just. You guys didn’t move on. At all. You got more unfinished business than anybody I’ve ever met.”

Embarrassment warms your cheeks. At the corner of your eye, Cas is still gaping. You stutter, “What? I—no we don’t.”

Dean points a _look_ your way.

You look helplessly at Cas, but his eyes find the floor, lips parted, and holy shit, he looks _lost._  

Before you can reply, Dean’s back at it: “C’mon. All that staring at each other when you think you won’t get caught. You been doing it every time you’re in a room together. You were doing it two minutes ago!”

“Dean,” Cas says warningly, a low rumble that sounds mojoed and pissed.

“What,” Dean presses, “I know what that looks like, ‘cause I been doing it too.” When neither of you intercede, he plows on: “I know you guys got a list of regrets a mile long, okay. I get it. I just—don’t think you’re doing each other any favors by holding back a bunch of shit you need to work out.”

You glare without any heart in it. “Who’s the Dr. Phil _now_?”

Dean holds up his hands. “Hey. Just calling it like I see it.”

Cas says, “He’s right.”

Your heart leaps in your chest.

Cas’ eyes flicker up to yours. “There’s a lot we— _I_ —should have said and never did.”

“Like what.” You’re fighting the clench in your throat.

“Like how I should have apologized for leaving you.”

_Yes_ , your heart sings, even as your eyes prickle. You say automatically: “You didn’t leave me.”

“Yes, I did. The angels left me, Dean left us, and then I—I left you, even though you needed me. I needed you, too. I should’ve let you help. I. . . I should’ve been there for you.”

Christ. If you speak, you’ll burst into tears. You had no idea how much you needed to hear this.

And he keeps going: “I was too lost in my own grief to do anything but try to make it stop. With anything.” His throat shifts in a hard swallow. “I regret that every day.”

“Yeah?” It’s strangled, charged with tears you’re still keeping back. “Didn’t seem like it. You had people queueing up next to our bed, what—a week later?”

His eyes flash. “Why do you _think_?”

You always figured he was looking for the same thing he had with you and Dean, but to hear it so bluntly. . . this is too much. This is too frigging much. And despite the fact that you still hate him for leaving, the softness in his eyes is making you think—

Wow. W-o-w, you gotta get the fuck outta here.

You blink the blurriness away. “Welp. I. This was. Good talk, guys. Enlightening.” You stagger to your feet, leaving your glass on the rug. “I got shit to pack.” You don’t. You never unpacked from last night. “So I’m just gonna—okay. See you out there.”

You’re a step from the door when Cas catches your wrist, light enough to let you slip through if you really want. But you don’t; you stop cold. Jesus, you can’t even look at him. All this time, and he _still_ does this to you.

His voice cracks. “Please don’t go.”

He’s wrapped around your pulse; he’s gotta feel how fucking hard your heart’s beating. You grit your teeth against another rise of heat in your face, and all at once it’s just—it’s too much hurt to hold onto. Your eyes well up as you turn back to him. “You asshole.” It’s wibbly. No anger in it. “You _ass_ , you know I never wanted to.”

Desperation tilts his brows, and he rasps your name like he used to when he was full of light and fire. Back when he needed you.

To the very end, you’ll never know who moved first. You crash into each other like you never left.

His mouth slants soft against yours only for an instant, and then the kiss turns _furious_ , ragged. You bite at his lower lip before he groans and lays a bite on yours, _hard_ before one of his hands rakes into your hair, the other slipping around your waist to haul you against him. You bury both hands in his hair, letting him keep you against him until you break the kiss with a slick sound. “God damn it,” you gasp, _electric_ , too close for eye contact and staring anyway. Wound up from the inside out. “Cas, you know I still want you—”

“Yeah.” It drags against your lips. “Never stopped for me, either. I’m sorry.” He presses in, forehead to forehead, nose nuzzling. “Fuck, m’so sorry, I blew it, I never—”

“Yeah, me too. C’mere.” You let yourself get _kissed_ when he opens your lips and slips his tongue across yours, hesitant before going deeper, taking more. Hot as hell before he eases back again to thunk his forehead back into yours.

Panting, he manages, “One more for the road?”

Heat _surges_ through you, blooms in sparks between your legs. You duck your head; his lips press between your brows. You nod right there, your hands falling to his lapels. This jacket you’ve dragged off his shoulders so many times. Dean’s before it belonged to Cas. “Fuck, Cas. Yeah.”

He ducks to find your mouth again, and your heart sings as much as it aches. God, Dean should be here for thi—

Oh.

You pull out of the kiss to look back.

Dean’s on his feet, lips parted. Eyes blown wide with shock, with _arousal,_ staring hungrily at you and Cas.

Cas looks too; you feel the shudder that runs through him, and you know you’re good to ask: “Dean?” It’s so rough, barely your own voice. “You wanna. . .?”

His eyes fall shut as he breathes out in a shaky rush. “I can’t. If I do, I. I dunno how I’m gonna stop.” He looks back at you both, stark and desperate. “I should. Um. Save something for them.”

“But you want to,” Cas says, deep. Dean always lost his shit over the bottom of Cas’ range; no wonder he’s pulling it out now.

“Jesus, yes.” Dean’s chest punches up and down, shallow. He snaps into motion; in two strides he’s close enough that you can reach one hand between layers of shirts, slipping around the soft of that gray tee. He leans into your touch and wraps an arm around Cas.

You murmur, “So you—you wanna watch?”

Dean lets out a strangled little noise. “Uh,” he says, and his hand comes up, fitting around your cheek. Warm and broad, fingertips in your hair as he searches your eyes. “Yeah,” he says, thick. “Yeah, if that’s okay.”

You and Cas glance at each other. “I think we can make it work,” says Cas.

Dean gulps. “Then don’t let me interrupt.”

You don’t.

* * *

The last time you and Cas did this, you didn’t even make it to a bed.

There was a fight. You called him out once and for all on his out-of-control drug use, even as you needed a couple shots of the camp hooch to make it over in the first place. You broke it off, and he agreed it was for the best, and in the stunned, final-sounding silence, there was a goodbye kiss. Then he was backing you against the wall by the kitchenette and you were pulling him in with you, both of you fumbling with belts and buckles. His fingers worked at you as you returned the favor, slow strokes with a shaking hand, panting into each other’s shoulders. He jerked into your grip and you shuddered onto his fingers.

Fast, rough, too much. You probably shouldn’t have, and still—neither of you wanted to let go, lingering too close after bitten kisses.

You can barely let go _now_.

He’s on the edge of his bed, exactly where he was when you came in this morning with one key difference: you’re straddling him. He’s sitting up, one arm around the small of your back, dragging you into the slow roll of his hips even as you brace your knees wide and let yourself rock shamelessly against him.

You’re barely even kissing him—just breathing together, foreheads pressing tight, mouths brushing—and already you can’t get enough.

_Cas_. It’s desperate in your mind; you thread your fingers in his hair and hold back your whimpers. _Castiel, fuck, I missed you so much._

His whole body shudders beneath you, and he groans, “ _God,_ ” and brings his hips to a stop, looking up at you with this open hurt that freezes Dean where he’s just easing onto the bed.

Dean says, “Cas?”

Cas says, “You remember I said I couldn’t hear prayers anymore.”

Surprise thunders through you, and a bright spark of hope. “Yes?”

“I lied,” he rasps. “I can’t understand you, but I—I can feel it.” He closes his eyes, his brows screwed together. “It’s faint, but it’s. Like static in my head, tinged with—whatever emotion goes with it. Desperation. Anger. Ev—everything else.”

You cradle his face in both hands, squeezing your eyes shut, and you think with all your might: _Cas, I never stopped loving you_.

He _groans_ , loud and long as his hips lurch upward, involuntary, looking up at you with wide and reverent eyes, glassy and wet in the low light, and then he jolts and reaches for Dean, too, fisting a hand in Dean’s shirts. “You,” he says, “ _you’re_ —?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is shaky; he glances at you, his smile just as hopeful as yours. “Yeah, Cas, me too.”

Cas pulls him in.

This is. Whoa. Okay, you fucking forgot about this, and _how_ did you ever, because they are so— _hot_ —together, explosive in the slow catch and pull of lips. And Dean, Jesus, with his eyes closed, his face radiating desperation, _need_ ; he brings his hands up, catching Cas’ jaw in one and wrapping around the nape of your neck with the other. Goosebumps slip across your skin as his fingertips roam and as he— _Dean_ , not Cas, _oh_ —opens Cas’ mouth and delves his tongue inside. Cas’ hips surge up against you as he moans, and Dean’s hand tightens on the back of your neck as he lets out a sharp, breathy sound.

_God_.

You lean into Dean’s touch, craving more, missing him and needing him, and a smile flares at the corner of his busy mouth. When he turns to you, eyes heavy-lidded and gorgeous, his hand falls to your shoulder, hooking the fabric of your jacket to tug and ease.

Yep. Definitely cool with that. You let it slip off your arms, down your shoulders. Beneath is a simple tee, soft with age, one of your favorites, and Cas works his hands beneath it as he greedily pulls you back to his mouth.

This time his kisses go easier as Dean helps him pull his jacket off. Instead of biting, Cas soothes with his tongue, pulses it carefully and gently against the seam of your lips, hesitant. You bring your hands back to his face and show him how much you do.

Clothes come off easy, gradual, the three of you scooting further onto the bed. You still love Cas’ body, golden even in October, though now you can count his ribs and he’s got new and familiar scars. There’s a long pink one down the bars of his ribs; you remember stitching it yourself while he took swigs of the alcohol you splashed over it.

Dean’s staring with wide, reverent eyes. He traces a thumb over the elegant block of Enochian script under Cas’ collarbone, blueing with age. Right where Dean’s got his anti-possession tattoo. “Does the usual,” Cas explains. “And wards me. I didn’t think to brand my ribs like I did yours, before I fell.”

Dean takes a shuddery breath. “You look good with ink, Cas.”

Cas actually goes pink-cheeked at that. “So do you.”

Dean reaches behind himself and pulls his shirt off and—your breath catches, and you and Cas just _stare._

Last time you saw your Dean naked, he was all hard lines, no meat on his bones. Just muscle, mottled with scars and a burn from a raid that went south moths before. _This_ Dean—it’s been barely a year since Cas put him back together. This Dean hasn’t had to ration food, hasn’t built himself into a weapon. He’s golden and scarless except for a long, thin, recent scab along his side. He’s softness over muscle. The way you first saw him. The way you always loved him.

“C’mon,” he mutters, clearly embarrassed under the scrutiny. “I’m nothin’ special.”

You and Cas glance at each other. “We’re gonna dissuade him of that,” Cas says.

“Damn right,” you agree, and pull your shirt off, too.

Cas’ eyes rake over you, greedy, and Dean’s do, too; you breathe through it, letting them look, heart thumping fast, nipples tightening beneath your bra at the way they’re damn near drooling. Cas’ hands skim up your waist, still rough with calluses.

Dean edges closer to Cas, scooting a bit behind him, planting kisses along Cas’ shoulder. “Damn,” he says, rumbling, “that’s a hell of a view, kid.”

You barely avoid a flinch.

Cas’ eyes dart up to yours, waiting for you to call Dean out.

You let it go. He isn’t the guy across camp. You tilt your head briefly sideways, a shrug.

Cas smiles like a ray of sunshine, warm and bright. “Yeah,” he says, “I agree with Dean,” and _oh_ , his thumbs track up, directly over your bra, skimming in circles while you close your eyes and shiver, hands clenched on his arms, leaning into it—

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean’s voice cracks, and your eyes fly open as Cas goes completely still beneath you.

Dean’s staring at Cas’ back, lips parted, brows knit in confusion and worry.

Right. You haven’t seen them in awhile, but you can bet those scars haven’t improved much.

Cas’ hands fall to your hips; he swallows hard. He can’t seem to meet your eyes, and his pulse thumps fast in his neck. “A remnant of my fall,” he says. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

When he says it like that, it sounds simple, like the twin scars between his shoulder blades just showed up one day. You don’t need to see them now to remember the shape: broader at the top, tapering messily down to the divots in the small of his back. Pink, slightly-sunken skin, like somebody once poured something chemical there. You know the truth: Cas _asked_ an old angel friend to remove his wings before it was too late. Right before the angels turned their backs for good.

“Can I. . .” Dean hesitates, hand open.

Cas closes his eyes and nods, then breathes out in a shudder as Dean’s fingertips alight on the scars.

You’ve traced them before, too, and you do now, settling one arm around Cas’ neck and trailing the other down the range of his shoulderblades, the mottled place where his wings used to unfurl, fingers easing over and between Dean’s. You press close to Cas. _I like you better without,_ you think.

His eyes open up to yours, and he licks his lips. He says, “We’re still wearing too many clothes.”

It's the kind of rejection you expected, but you make sure to kiss him good and deep before you start doffing your duds.

Dean’s soft blue boxer-briefs hide _nothing_. You find yourself stretched along his right side, still in your bra and panties. Cas lays along Dean’s left, already naked.

You haven't kissed Dean yet and both of you know it, staring openly at each other’s mouths. You hover close, feverish with anticipation, but you hesitate a breath away. There's something you gotta settle first. “Where are we drawing the line, here?”

“Uh.” Dean’s restless under Cas’ wandering hand, up his thigh, skipping his shorts. “I, I’m good with anything but the. . . main event. I should save that.”

It’s more than you expected. “Cool. I mean, even me’n Cas can't get to that.”

Bless him, he looks _disappointed_. “Why not?”

“Uh, the end of the world,” Cas says. “Protection was one of the first things to go.”

“But all the orgies. . .?”

Cas pauses his trailing hand. “Some of them don’t care. Or we work around it. They volunteer anyway.” He quirks a wicked smile. “Sex doesn’t _need_ to be genital-to-genital contact to be good, Dean.”

“Please never say that again,” Dean groans, dropping his head back. “But hey, if you guys wanna— _oh_.”

Cas hooks the edge of Dean’s boxer briefs and pulls them down in one swift motion, eyes gleaming as Dean arches his hips to help.

Jeeesus. Okay, that is. That is fucking exquisite. “Dean,” you croak, tracing the smooth vee down his hip, “I wanna. . .”

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, and finally pulls you down to his mouth.

It's been what. Two years? And still, his kisses are every bit as dizzying as you remember, just as lush and smooth. His thumb traces down your jaw before you meet his tongue at your lips and sigh into him with a full-body pitch against his side, hooking a leg over his while Cas makes a desperate noise. Dean’s kiss goes deeper, _slow_ for all he's making quiet, needy sounds in his throat as your hand slips down his belly, through the short hair past his navel, through the wiry scratch of the rest of it, until—

He breaks off with a gasp when you get your hand around him, hips bucking into your touch. Yeah, you remember this, too. Smooth and hard and hot in your hand. So eager. Smiling against his mouth, you murmur, “you were gonna say something.”

“Yeah.” His brows narrow in attempt to focus though Cas is opening his mouth beneath Dean’s ear. “Uh. Hold up—both ‘a you.”

You and Cas draw back, curious, as Dean’ gets up to his elbows. He pants, “I packed. I mean. I. I got condoms in my wallet, if you guys want ‘em.”

Oh.

_Oh._

You squeak, “Condoms _plural_?”

“In your _wallet_?” Cas frowns. “Isn't that—not recommended?”

All attention turns to him.

He shrugs, eyes dancing. “I may have done research, when we first became involved.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, “okay, _yes_ , you’re right, but I keep. . . ugh.” He hides his face in his hands with a groan. “I keep changing ‘em out,” he tells his palms, both muffled and amplified. “Keep trying to get up the guts to make a move on you two. So. They’re. Newish. If you wanna use ‘em.”

You and Cas stare at each other, wide-eyed. “Yeah,” says Cas, breathless as you nod in quick agreement, “yeah, I think we’ll take you up on that.”

“Lemme just—” Dean rolls toward you, reaching like he might grab for his jeans somewhere on the floor. But Cas’ hand locks onto his hip. “It can wait,” Dean decides, and falls back.

“Yeah.” Cas skims his palms up the flat of Dean’s hips, then back down, opening his thighs. Half a question, he says, “Let me do this for you, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice shakes. “Yeah I—if you. Yeah.”

You settle back at Dean’s side, propping yourself up with one arm beneath his neck. You both watch Cas take him in hand, nestling kisses at the base of Dean’s cock, inching his way up. You kiss Dean’s temple, shivery as he is.

Cas still knows exactly how to do this, how to do it to _Dean_ , how Dean will go twitchy-crazy if either of you hover at the head, how he’ll try to jolt up if you sink down all at once. Dean pulls you back to his mouth, down into the desperate-damp of his kiss.

You trail your fingers down his chest, his belly, knuckles brushing against the shape of him through Cas’ cheek, _fuck_. His breath catches as you sink your fingers lower, past Cas’ chin and _down_. Hovering. Questioning.

“Dean,” you whisper against his mouth, “can I—?”

He hesitates with a gulp, so you start to pull your hand back—but he catches your wrist. “Yeah.”

Cas groans around his mouthful, and pulls off with an absolutely obscene noise to suck your fingers into his mouth. Sparks rush up your arm as the pad of his tongue traces your fingertips, his eyes burning dark into yours.

Dean’s entire body seizes up at the first touch of your fingers. He groans thick and desperate, turning his face to hide against your arm. His hips roll up, thrusting into Cas’ mouth and into your touch. You smooth your fingers over him, slow and careful, timing your strokes with Cas’ movement.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps against you. “I—god, Cas, you better—”

And Cas just goes deeper, meeting the circle of his own fingers around Dean, his free hand sliding up your thigh to lock onto your hip.

It makes you press yourself against Dean, leg tightening where you’re keeping his open, letting your fingers smooth just a little deeper. It’s enough to feel the muscle give way as he grinds out, “Nnnngod _fuck_ ,” and Cas groans around him; you follow with your touch and Cas follows with his mouth as Dean comes, breathing out hard in a near-sob.

When he settles, tendons stand out in his arm where he still grips Cas’ hair. Cas eases off, holding Dean’s gaze so intensely that you go hot with it, too. His mouth gleams in the low light; he sucks and releases his lower lip, loosening his grip as he eases up Dean’s body. “Jesus,” Dean pants. “Oh my god. That was— _ungh_.” He shivers.

You half expect him to protest when Cas goes for a kiss, but he just opens right up for it, smiling into it even as their mouths work.

Honestly, you could get off on this and be just as happy about it.

Dean rolls atop Cas and nuzzles into his neck, kissing, murmuring, praise and gratitude. But Cas—he doesn’t turn toward Dean, he turns toward _you_ , looking at you over Dean’s shoulder with this hopeful smile that makes your heart swoop.

Dean shifts so that Cas is in the middle now, settling back with an exhausted, content sigh. Eyes flicking up to you, Dean says, “So. You two. Unfinished business. Last—” He catches himself instantly, with only a flash of panic before he decides on, “—coupla condoms on the planet. What are you gonna do about it?”

You smile anyway, scooting up close to the warm line of Cas’ body. “What’ll it be, Cas?”

He traces hair out of your face with reverent fingers. “Want me to decide, do you.”

“Yeah.” With a glance at Dean, you add, “Historically, that turns out well for us.”

“Oh my god.” Dean runs a hand over himself, soft as he’s gone. “You guys are pushin’ all my buttons, you know that.”

Cas laughs, such a sweetness about him. “Yes,” he says simply.

Then he pulls you on top of him.

Your veins go molten; Cas drags his hands down your back until they sink beneath your panties. He gets a solid grip on your rear, letting the weight of your hips settle overtop where he’s hard and _warm_. He tightens his hands, pulling you slow and easy against him, and you and Dean let out shuddering moans, you at the feeling, him at the sight.

“You want me there?” Cas rumbles, and arousal throbs deep between your legs, every quick beat pulsing against that solid, hot pressure. You relax into the pull and give of his hands, letting him guide you over him. “Back inside you, deep as we can go?” His mouth catches yours; he drinks in your whimper, and murmurs, “Like we used to?”

“ _God_ ,” you gasp, “Cas, yes.”

Cas hooks his thumbs in your panties. “Dean, help me with these.”

You’re bare in a blink then shifting, back up on your knees, which sink into the rumpled coverlet. Your chest heaves and they watch, wide-eyed; Cas moves close and takes your face in his hands. He says, “Dean, you have no idea how sweet it feels inside her.”

Dean makes a noise like he got decked. “You gonna show me?”

Cas smiles against you. “You’re damn right I am.” He kisses you, brief and soft. “I want Dean close,” he murmurs. “Is that all right?”

You nod, breathless, gripping when you feel Dean’s fingers in yours. “Put me where you want me.”

Turns out it’s between them, you on your right side, Cas slotting up behind you while Dean lays out in front. Dean kisses your forehead before he rolls away to find his wallet.

You shift so that you’re still on your side, but angled back so Cas can press his forehead into yours. His blue eyes hover close, dipping shut as he moves to kiss you again. His hand roves hot up your belly, pausing at your breasts so he can skim callused palms over the peaks, closing his fingers and thumbing far too gently across them before his hand continues climbing. His fingertips skim over your neck and goosebumps ripple across your body in shivers that have you arching back against him. “Missed you,” he murmurs. His hand slips lower again until it sinks between your thighs so he can cup his palm against you, barely tightening to a grip that slides your own slick folds against themselves, Je _sus_. He breathes out, shaky and hard, pressing his face into your neck. “D’you still like it when. . .” He barely flexes three fingers, not enough to open you up, but enough to remind you of every time he—  

Oh. _Oh_ god, yeah you can’t moan your _yes_ fast enough; all you can do is hook your left leg back over his hip to open yourself up, and he groans against your neck as he slowly but steadily sinks three fingers inside you all at once.

You arch further against him with a noise through your teeth. It hurts like it always did, but the invasive stretch of him, the way he’s instantly stroking inside where you’re shuddering and hot for him— _that_ feels so incredible you can’t believe you lasted so long without. “God.” His voice is a mess, tight as you whimper on every breath. “Oh, god, you feel so good. Dean, she’s. _Oh_. She’s so open for us both.”

The bed dips; Dean’s back but you’ve hidden your face in your arm, can only listen to the rough, desperate noises he makes. Dean’s hand alights on the side of your neck, pulling you out of your daze while Cas’ fingers continue to ease in and out of you. You go willingly into Dean’s kiss, way too soft for how brutally Cas is stretching you open and rocking his hips against one globe of your ass. Dean’s lips move pliant and only a little slick against yours, distracting you with lingering brushes of tongue. _Slow_. It makes sparks go off in your belly, in your cunt, curling around the outside and following the path of Cas’ fingers. Gradually, like you always did, you relax into it. “That’s it,” Dean murmurs. “God, yes.”

You only notice Dean’s opened the condom packet when Cas withdraws his fingers. And here's another thing you'd forgotten: Cas watching Dean roll the condom on and completely basking in the graceless act because it makes everything else so _real_. Cas’ eyes find yours and he wets his lips, hungry and breathless both. He says, “Dean, when you _—_ you won’t need this, back in your time.”

Dean looks up, done. “You mean—?”

“I mean back then, my grace was enough to protect against—everything.”

Dean grips himself, back to half-hard already. “Jesus Christ, Cas.”

You wheeze a laugh, reminding yourself to breathe through your nerves. “Pretty sure you said the same thing then, too.”

“I remember less coherency,” Cas murmurs, settling behind you again.

You drape your leg back over his hip, heart hammering as Dean watches. Cas shifts and—“ _Oh_ ,” you groan, closing your eyes as the warm, heavy length of his cock slides through but not into you yet. He just _moves_ for a moment, opening but not entering, swiveling his hips and swearing into your hair.

You reach behind you, arm around his neck, winding his hair through your fingers. “Please, Cas _—_ ”

There’s no hesitation, no shallow, slowly-deepening thrusts. Just Cas, all at once, the heat of him spreading you open and then sinking inside fast and slick and _deep_ , hard enough that you both shout. Dean is panting, swearing as he reaches between your legs, stroking Cas and stroking you at the point where you and Cas connect.

“Oh god,” Cas pants, not even moving, his left arm draping then locking around you to keep you close. Already the two of you are tacky with sweat. “ _God_ , I missed—” He breathes out, hard, a whimper at the end. “Fuck,” he manages, and slips his hips back just a little to grind forward again, _slow_ into you, every slick point of contact flaring bright with arousal and pleasure.

You crush your forehead to Dean’s, letting your whimpery gasps speak for you. Cas manages, “Yeah?” He pulls back again, eases forward; every stroke feels just as delicious as the first, rippling through your body in warm, tingling waves. You nod, trying to roll your hips back into it, working with the limited space and his short but deep strokes, pleasure blooming from that point, crescendoing to bliss as Dean’s fingers slip forward to circle your clit.

“Never this good,” Cas manages against your neck, “never, not with any of the others—none of them— _ever_ felt as good as you do.”

“ _Cas_.” You buck forward into Dean’s fingers, back into Cas’ thrusts. His hips move steady now, picking up speed, heat building and building between your legs. His teeth graze the tendons in your neck.

You’ve just gotten up the courage to open your eyes when abruptly, he stills his pace.

You shudder, releasing Dean’s kiss. “Cas?”

Dean’s there, too, leaning up over you to kiss the top of Cas’ head. “You good?”

Cas tightens his arm around you. “Yeah. I just— _ngh_. Wanna see you.”

Yeah. That’s—you can do that.

The three of you re-settle against the overwarm mattress, and Cas’ knees nudge your thighs wide. Dean comes back to your right side, slipping his arm beneath your neck to support and get himself close, the opposite of your placement not long ago.

“Look at you,” Cas says, soft and open, gaze trailing over you. “You break my heart, you’re so damn beautiful.”

All things considered, you’ve been keeping self-consciousness pretty in check, but oh god, your face heats all over again. There’s nowhere to hide, either; they’re above and beside you.

But Cas totally knows what he’s done. He gets down to his elbows, so much close contact, nuzzling in search of a kiss. “I didn't tell you enough.”

“We will this time,” Dean says at your temple. “I’m gonna make damn sure.”

Cas looks at him, solemn. “I expect nothing less.”

Then he kisses you. When you open to him, he goes _deep_. Gentle, unhurried, as though the blue night outside won’t ever become dawn.

His tongue’s still slipping lazily across yours when he shifts his hips between your open thighs, parts your folds with the head of his cock, and— _ohfuck_ —slips back inside. You gasp, body suddenly wound tight despite the rush of pleasure. Dean gets a hand between the two of you, broad over your belly and the quivering tightness there. “Easy,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down to your clit. “easy, kid, I know you can take him.” His mouth finds the corner of yours and you tilt your face toward his, whimpering against those lush lips.

Cas groans above you, sweating now as he moves slow but _deep_ , clearly reveling in the endless slick strokes, all the more intensified with that leisurely pace. Fuck, it’s hot, seeing him and Dean worked up like this again. Dean grinds helplessly into your thigh, back to hard and so turned on he’s gotta break off the kiss to pant.

Which is when you look up at Cas, who’s staring down at you with blue eyes brighter than any trip could give him, focused and shining.

Like this, braced on one shaking arm and reaching with tender fingers to cradle your jaw, he is not the blissed-out granola flower child who fucks whoever he can get. He’s just _Cas_. The guy who ached for you and Dean in secret before he even knew what it was to ache. Who stuck with you even after Dean left. Who offered you mint tea this morning with that look on his face like missing you still kept him up nights, too.

It’s too damn much. You close your eyes again, and on Cas’ heavy, _slow_ thrusts, you feel yourself lighting up with a warm, rolling tide of pleasure. “Cas.” It’s a whimper, strangled. “I—”

“I know.” His next thrust is harder, _faster_ , and so is the one after that, building up to how you like it when you get close. “I remember.”

“ _Ungh_ , yes.” Dean takes his hand back, so his knuckles scrape along your thigh where he’s stroking himself. The mattress dips at your shoulder as he leans to kiss you.

Eyes still screwed shut, you feel Cas nose along the hinge of your jaw, easing plush kisses beneath it. Gentle despite the pace he’s setting. It’s a wordless plea: _look at me_.

You nip Dean’s bottom lip before drawing back, and even through his haze of arousal, he nods like a good luck.

Yeah, you definitely read Cas right; his smile glows for all it’s just a little one, his earnest blue eyes locked on yours. Then his whole face shifts, brows drawing up on a gasp. “God,” he pants, “are you—”

“ _Yeah_.” You clench your hand in his hair, your arm holding his shoulders down and close. “C’mon, Cas, c’mon, please— _oh.”_

He’s shifted to gather one of your knees, pulling it up over his hip so you can clasp your leg around the small of his back. You both cry out as he drives forward and _in_ to you, deepest yet, relentlessly fast. He presses his damp forehead into yours, gasps “F- _fuck_ ,” and then seals his hips _hard_ against the open heat of yours, groaning your name with so much helpless desperation that you follow him into the abyss. It’s wet, frictioned bliss, the thick of his cock forcing you open even as you clench into a shudder around his harder, holding thrusts, arousal surging up and out, over and over.

Dean’s head drops onto the pillow, muffling his groan as his hips spasm and he comes again, warm and wet against your thigh, knuckles slipping in it, holy _shit_.

Cas has gone still, shuddering in your arms while you shudder in his. He plants his face at your shoulder and breathes raggedly, raising more goosebumps across your skin. You can’t seem to unlock your leg from around him, drunk on the feeling of him this close, sweat-slick and overheated as both of you are. And Dean’s gripping himself with a slick hand, drawing in deep, shuddering gulps of air.

Know what, you take back everything you said.

You kinda think you owe Zachariah a gift basket. At least a thank-you note.

Cas kisses you, breathes, “Okay,” and carefully, wincingly pulls out of you. He reaches overhead to crank open the window above the bed with a few practiced twists of his wrist. Cool, sweet forest air floods the room, a welcome relief to the sweatbox it’s become. It’s something you didn’t even know you missed, nights basking in the quiet, cool night after everything you just did. Cas knows it; his quiet smile says it all as he rolls off the mattress.

You and Dean just pant, watching as Cas collects and wets a few rags, then tosses them at both of you, cleaning himself while he’s up. Then he’s back.

All three of you shift, moving beneath a single layer of sheets. You snuggle up against Cas’ side and Dean burrows close behind you with the entire smooth, lean line of his body. It’s a sleepy, sated pile. Just like it used to be.

“God damn,” Dean mutters against your neck. “You guys, this was. . .”

You smile into Cas’ shoulder. “So you’re gonna make a move on us when you get back, right, Dean.”

“ASAP,” he says. “Fricking—instantly, kid.”

Cas says, “And Michael?”

Dean goes as tense as you do. On the end of a long breath, Dean says, “I got some ideas.”

You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or not, but man, you want him to make it work. “So you’re not saying yes.”

“Hope not.” He clings a little tighter. “More sounds like I gotta call up my little brother. Keep him from saying ‘yes’ first. See if we can fight ‘em off together.”

Cas’ fingers stroke through your hair. “I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t,” Dean grumbles. “I just wanna stay in this damn bed with you two.”

You shift around to find Dean’s wrist, and squint at his watch. “We still have a few more hours before we gotta get rolling.”

“I could set an alarm,” he offers.

With a hand in Cas’ hair and Dean tucked behind you, you fall asleep easier than you have in a long damn time.

* * *

“Hey, Chuck.”

“Yeah, hey, are you driving tonight? I didn't see—”

“Gimmie your hand, dude.”

“What? Why?” He does it anyway.

You turn it palm-up, then drop the keys to your Ranger into it. Somehow, without a crack in your voice, you say, “Better hold onto these.”

He blinks up at you, stricken. “That bad?”

“Seems like.” You stuff your hands in your pockets to keep from snatching the keys back.

“Nooo, no, no.” Chuck clamps his clipboard under one arm and tries to hand the keys back. “I don’t care how bad you think this is gonna go—I can’t take Strider.”

You twist out of his reach. “Yes you can. You’ve been eyeballing that truck since Yeager and I rolled it through the gate.”

He purses his lips. “You’re not wrong.” With a sigh, he folds the keys into his hand. “I’ll take good care of him. But don’t give me a reason.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. I’ll do my best.” You slap his shoulder, rasping, “Thanks, man.”

Dean—the older version—stops you before you’ve gone six paces. “Hey,” he says, hesitant, looking so much like his younger self that your heart thumps a little harder. “Uh. You wanna ride with me?”

Do you? “I dunno. Am I gonna get a lecture?”

He doesn’t let it rile him up. “Nope. I just. . .” He looks away. “Just wanted to catch up,” he says. “Been awhile, you know.”

Your heart softens. “Yeah. Sure thing. Lemme go tell my ride.”

Cas and the younger Dean are studying a map by flashlight on the hood of Cas’ Cherokee, lit by the glow of the headlights against the car in front of them. “Hey,” you say as they turn toward you. “The other Dean asked me to ride with him. I think I’m gonna.”

Cas nods and slips closer, trailing his hand along your arm. “Long as I get dibs on you at the halfway point.”

“ _Hey_ ,” you tease, heading for the back seat to grab your gear. “ _I_ will decide who does and does not get dibs.”

“Yeah,” says younger-Dean, glancing over from the car, “you can’t call shotgun on a person.”

Cas smirks. “That’s fair.”

“But you do.” Jesus, you actually feel _shy_. “Get dibs, I mean. You definitely do. Both of you.” With a deep breath, you stick your hands in your pockets to keep from doing anything rash.

You’re almost at Dean’s Jeep when you realize you’re allowed to act on the urge to kiss Cas goodbye.

When you turn back, Cas is still facing you, and he pulls this wry smile that lurches your heart into a pitter-patter. He calls, “Forget something?”

You can’t shake your smile the whole walk back. Dropping your gear, curling your hands into his jacket, you say, “Yep.”

It’s so much more tender than you could’ve hoped, his thumb in an arc across your cheek, his soft mouth coaxing yours into motion. When you pull back, he nuzzles your nose.

You nuzzle him right back, so glad you can show how much you care about him. Hating that you figured it out so damn late.

From somewhere a few cars ahead, Older-Dean calls your name.

Cas takes a deep breath. “See you at halfway?”

“You bet.” You kiss him one more time, lingering. “Careful with your precious cargo.”

Engines start as you shoulder your bag. It’s time to get this show on the road.

You gotta get to Kansas City by sunrise.

*

*

*

You’re outside Ithaca scrubbing a spray of rugaru blood off the front fender, acrid smoke still roiling into the sky, when Dean calls.

Your hands are so smeared with blood and dirt and sweat, you can barely get the stupid screen to let you answer. “Hey,” you pant when you do, face heating even now. “You butt-dialing me again?”

“Nope.” He sounds rushed, a little nervous—all in one word. But he still adds, “You sound like you’re having fun.”

Your heart skips. Mercy, you gotta sit down to deal with him getting flirty. You get your ass on the ground and slump against the wheel well, kicking your legs out, tilting your head back against the metal while you catch your breath. “Ahh, you know, depends on the definition.”

There’s a brief silence. Dean actually says, “Uh.”

You laugh, and your body lights up with pain in every place you forgot you got hit. “ _Ow_ , Jesus. No, dude, I’m frickin’—that smell you can’t smell is well-done rugaru.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just cleaning up. Only ganked the sonofabitch like five minutes ago.”

“No shit. Nice work. I can—I can call back.”

“No, I’m good.” You flap a hand at the scene around you, wondering what’s got him all. . . whatever this is. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“New York.”

“I’m gonna need you to get more specific.”

_Oh._ You’d cover your grin if your hand wasn’t so gross. “Cas with you?”

“He might be.”

Close in the background, you hear an exasperated, “ _Dean_.”

You barely finish giving him the closest address when there’s a sound like a sheet whipping off a super-sexy car, and they’re standing right in front of you.

Jesus, they look good. Even more so, because Cas’ collar is rumpled and upturned, his tie super askew. And Dean's—kinda flushed. Patches of red on his face, his neck.

The grin falls off your face.

Welp.

Good job, kid. You waited too long. You waited too damn long, and they made up their minds and chose each other.

Is it obvious, how stricken you are right now? How much your heart’s in your throat? “Um,” you say. “Hi. You guys—oh, okay—”

Dean’s moved forward, reaching for your gross hand; you have no choice but to give it as he hauls you to your feet and then _keeps you close_ , big green eyes searching yours. He’s radiant in the dimming firelight of burning rugaru. “Hi,” he says, breathless. “I—kid. I just. Found some stuff out about the three of us.”

Shit, you’re winded too, barely enough air to croak, “Whhhat the _hell_.” You glance back at Cas, just now noticing his hair is disheveled, too. Like somebody raked their hands through it. “Cas, did you take back that whole ‘no-mind-reading’ policy?”

His smile is the prettiest thing you’ve seen all day. “Believe it or not, no.”

You’re nothing short of bewildered. “Then what. . .?”

“I—it’s a long story.” Dean shifts, right up close to you, and you watch him watch your mouth. “Imma tell it to you as soon as we do this.”

“‘This’ being—”

His hands come up to cradle your jaw.

“Holy shit,” you damn near laugh, shaky, automatically leaning into Cas as he presses warm up against your side. “You guys—you really— _both_ of you?”

“Both of us,” Cas promises, earnest.

“Last week.” Dean’s searching your eyes. “Before Raphael. I shoulda dragged you guys into the back seat with me.”

Your body flushes even hotter. _How in the hell—?_ Stunned,you breathe, “We wouldn’t’ve fit.”

Dean nearly laughs, too, relief lighting his eyes. He murmurs, so close you can taste him, “C’mere, kid.”

He kisses you, and Cas tangles his fingers with yours. You’re sure of it like you’ve never been sure of anything else: this exactly where you belong.

**Author's Note:**

> Flail with me on tumblr [here](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).


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